The Rules We Break
by Godell
Summary: Summary edited. Sequel to "The Games We Play". Joker and Batsy are finally taking a vacation in Wales. Gordon is investigating the bloodbath they left behind. But Gotham's Finest Felons can't leave their playground for long... B/J SLASH.
1. Chapter 1: Gordon

This is a sequel to _The Games We Play. _I would advise reading that first, since none of this will make any sense otherwise.

**The Rules We Break**

** By**

** Godell**

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_. Only this plot.

**Chapter One: Gordon**

The Joker card is a familiar, mocking sight on my desk—the other, the 9 of Spades, is something completely different.

I look at the files the Forensics team gave me—which don't really tell me much more about where the cards came from: no prints, no DNA, _nothing_, as always. I slump back in my chair, looking at the clock. It's midnight, and I'm sure Barbara and the kids aren't waiting up for me. They're used to this routine by now.

Instinctively, my eyes move to the pictures on my desk—Barbara, holding our newborn daughter and smiling as a tiny, reddish-pink hand reaches out to touch her flushed face. My family watching the 4th of July fireworks last year, our smiles a little strained. Little Jim learning to walk, his blond brows furrowed in concentration.

I adjust my glasses and turn away, back to the cards. Back to my _job. _

I run through the details in my head: the open trapdoor, smelling of flesh and blood, the cards on the water-slicked stage, the open roof, the bag of cell phones…and the invitation found behind the curtain.

Obviously, the handwriting is Joker's—purple pen, with red "HA HA HA"s all around the edges. It looks as though he glued several Joker cards together in order to make the invitation look just right. Even the wording is weirdly elegant.

"'_Joker And His Associates Formally Invite You_'…in Crime Alley, that's fitting…'_to a show to die for_'…"

I sigh and start pacing around the room, looking at my collection of newspaper clippings—"_The Hunt For Batman Continues!_", "_The Joker Escaped From Arkham, Doctor Harleen Quinzel Found Dead In Office_", "_Alfred Pennyworth Caught In Mob Shootout—Was Bruce Wayne With Him?_"—on and on the clippings go, like a film reel stuck in the projector.

I close my eyes and lean against the wall, my head beginning to pound.

_Okay. First things first. Where is The Batman?_

The Batman has remained out-of-sight for the past two years. I figured as much. I do find the occasional thugs bound to lampposts, and maybe a few "anonymous" tips through cell phones, but other than that…nothing. Not even a "Bat-Sighting" from a civilian. Not even a "come out, come out, wherever you are!" from The Joker.

Then Bruce Wayne vanished. A mangled corpse fitting his description (and wearing the clothes he was last seen in) was found floating in the river, half-eaten by crabs. DNA tests are ongoing. I'm going to guess there isn't a match.

Everything's out of proportion—the city drops Wayne's coffin like a chipped diamond, while the criminals wail for The Batman, who is nowhere to be found.

And now _this _happens.

I walk back over to my desk and slump down into my chair, looking over the cards for the umpteenth time.

Just as I begin reading the rest of the invitation, Detective Stephens walks into my office, a small confident smile on his face. That's a good sign—a welcome relief from too many days of frustrated glares and empty cells.

"Everything's quiet outside, sir. There's _nothing _going on anywhere. Got any theories as to why?"

I point to the invitation in my hand.

Stephens snorts and runs a hand through his graying hair (I'm no better off). "That damn clown. I hope _we're _ahead of _him _sometime soon."

"If we catch The Batman, we will be. It seems that you can't find one without the other." I open the drawer in my desk and place the evidence bags inside.

"There's been no sign of Joker's goons, either. Think he's up to something?"

"When is he not?" I adjust my glasses and stand up, heading for the door. "C'mon. Let's take the night off."

"Let me buy you a beer," Stephens says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and following me out the door. "It could do you some good. And let's not talk shop anymore tonight."

I nod and lock the office door, forcing the image the 9 of Spades lying in my desk drawer aside…for now.


	2. Chapter 2: Joker

**WARNING: **This fic will include violence (mainly copious blood), sexual situations (slash mainly, but you already knew that I'm sure), murder, mayhem, and Villains Out Shopping.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, _Men's Flair_, or any songs mentioned herein_. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Two: Joker**

I peel the piece of latex over my scars and _grin_ in the bedroom mirror.

The little cottage we, ah, "_found"_ just out of Cardiff is a nice place, if I do say so myself. Pale yellow paint, green door, tin roof, two bedrooms…and a long stretch of river _just _behind the place.

Schiff's just waking up, if the shuffling to the bathroom is anything to go by. We didn't do a lot of, ah, _touring _yesterday—we mainly slept. A lot. After all, we gave a, ah, _late-night performance _for Gotham only the night before, _then _went on a plane ride that _shredded _our usual sleep schedule, _then _went looking for a cozy place to stay.

…Oh, and _then _we buried the bodies of the _ex_-cottage owners in the backyard, near the woods. Yum _yum_ for grubs, _hmmm?_

So all in all, it was a _busy _48 hours.

But _today_…today, we're going to have _fun._

But of course, I have to…_fix _myself first.

"Well _hello_, Mr. _Men's Flair _model!" I wave at my reflection, laughing as the latex wriggles to accommodate the sudden…_switch in expression._

"Somehow I doubt that," Batsy says coolly from the bedroom—_our _bedroom, how, ah, _quaint. _"I don't think they'd like that scar on your lip."

My tongue flicks out over the…_beauty mark_ in question. The "Y"-shaped one. "Pfft. Per_fect_ion_ists_. Gotta hate 'em."

"…Is the latex uncomfortable?"

I can see Batsy in the mirror, staring at me with an…_off _look on his face. His hair's a greasy, here-there-_everywhere _mess from sleeping so long. His black boxers are slightly, ah, _tilted _on his hips from tossing and turning. If I squint, the…_patterns _of scars on his body become more _pronounced_, easier to _appreciate._ And of course the slight _hint _of a smile-to-be is more than _sa_tis_fact_ory.

But that _tone _of his tells me that he wants that question…_answered_. Thing _is_, it's not an easy _question._ It gets to a point when you…_do_ things for so long, that you forget _why _you did it in the first place, or if it "felt un_com_fortable".

It's been awhile since I used this "latex disguise", so it feels a bit…_off _when I move my mouth, but I've done it before.

I turn and walk toward the bed, buttoning my black-and-purple checked shirt. "A little. You…get _used _to it after awhile. _Practice _makes _perfect_ n' all that."

I glance down at the _newest _scars on Batsy's body—the bullet wounds. They're healing up, but like the rest they'll be a bit…_prominent_. We don't _scar _well, Batsy and I—we're not exactly _pretty_ underneath our war paint and suits (or_ leather_, in Batsy's case), but then we're not _out_ to please _ev_ery_body_, now _are _we?

"I'm sure you've had plenty of practice." Batsy raises an eyebrow and scratches his chin, head cocked to one side. He looks like a curious bird. "Has anyone ever found out about the disguise?"

I grin. "Not unless I…_want _them to. And they don't have much…_time to tell _after _that._"

Batsy nods—not really seeming to _hear _me, what a _bad_ _bat_—and climbs out of bed, pulling on the black t-shirt he wore yesterday/last night (they kinda…_blur together)._ Then he exercises. He starts with the pushups first. I let him do his _thing_, choosing to grab my black trousers and suspenders (_never _leave home without 'em, gents!) and wriggle into them.

"How many d'you plan on doing _today_, Batsy?" I ask, as Batsy's muscles _tense _and _loosen _in an unending beat.

"110," Batsy grunts, looking over his shoulder at me.

"Have fun with that," I say softly, prodding him with my foot and watching as he leans to one side, _almost _off-balance. "_I'm _going to get breakfast."

Just as I turn around, a muscled leg lashes out and _snags _me, sending me crashing to the ground. I find myself staring up at an expressionless Batsy. He's…_lighter _than I thought, but the lightness means _nothing _when you have hands pinning you down, and legs on _your _legs keeping you…_still._

He leans down, and says oh-so-_softly_…

"I'd like French toast, if Schiff knows how to make it."

"Shouldn't it be, ah, _Welsh toast_?"

Batsy rolls his eyes. Then he gets off me, and gets back to his pushups.

Now, do you _really _think I'd let him pull a stunt like _that?_

Didn't _think _so.

_So_, as soon as he gets a few pushups in, I _pounce_, and we roll over and over on the hardwood floor, as I faintly hear Schiff singing _The Beatles'_ "I Am The Walrus" as he walks to the kitchen. "Everybody ha-ha", in_deed_. My world's a blur of tanned, scarred skin, dark eyes, white teeth, and brown floor. I find myself flailing and raking my hands against floor and skin and, well, _anything I can. _Batsy's doing the same thing—I can feel his hands digging into my shirt, scraping so _nicely _against my skin.

Then, just as I'm _sure _I have the upper hand…I feel his hand sneaking over my belly. And _wriggling. _

"You _cheat_," I howl, before bursting into cackles as Batsy uses this new, ah, _development_ to flip me over, hands behind my back. "Who said you could _tickle_, you _dirty_, awful, _wonderful_—"

"You're one to talk," Batsy growls, but I can hear the…_proud _hint in his voice. "Say 'uncle', and we'll be that much closer to breakfast in Wales."

"Wouldn't the safeword be a little more, ah, _appropriate?_" I ask, shifting around, testing just how _firm _his hold is.

"Ha-ha. Just say 'uncle', Joker."

I growl—not really…_meaning it_, 'course—and toss a grin over my shoulder. "…_Tell_ me something. If _I _had _you _like this, would _you _be that, ah, _pliant?_"

There's a nice little _pause_, as if Batsy's reading off a script, waiting for…the _right moment._

"No."

"_See?_" I laugh and lash out with my feet, kicking him _hard _in the belly (now _don't worry_, I'm barefoot) and trying to regain control.

Our wrestling match continues for a little while longer, until we're both breathing hard and our muscles are straining and we're just _tired._ Nobody's on the, ah, _upper hand _now. No, we're just sprawled out on the bedroom floor, shaking with silent laughter. Our stomachs are growling like tigers in a cage, _soooooo…_it's _breakfast time._

But we can wait if we want. We can _take our time_, for the first time in awhile. We can talk philosophy (and then get a bit…_pushy _about it). We can start our wrestling match where we left off. We can unpack and throw our stuff everywhere. I can introduce Batsy to the…_art _of _bank-robbing_. Or we can, ah, enjoy the _pleasure _of each other's _company_.

While I'm running over the possible _choices _open to us, my stomach rumbles again (_pushy today_, isn't it?), and I slowly get up and head to the door.

I hear the floor _creak _as Batsy gets up, and turn around in time to find him covered half in sunlight, half in shadow. His hair—tussled and oddly _curly_—gleams on one side like chocolate, while the other side is dark, like a shadow perched on his skull. On _one_ side, the face of a sleepy angel, the _other_, a weary Bat-God. As usual, "_Par_adox" is his middle name.

"Too bad I don't, ah, have a_ camera_ with me," I say, hand on the doorknob. "The way you look there…it could be some _album cover _or something."

Batsy rolls his eyes, and the…"_shot_" is ruined. "Maybe we'll buy one in town."

I grin. "_Maybe. _No _plans_, re_mem_ber?"

Batsy shrugs and gives me a cool, just-_this_-short-of-Batman-look. "We'll have to see about that, won't we?"

I open the door. "A challenge? Sounds good to me."


	3. Chapter 3: Batsy

Before we begin—_new hands, __**welcome!**_ _Old hands_, _**welcome back! **_

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or any of the stalls mentioned (these actually are in Cardiff). I own this plot.

**Chapter Three: Batsy**

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* * *

**

"Squeeze 'em."

I blink and turn to look at Joker, who is counting out the pounds we'll need.

"…What?"

"_Squeeze _'em—_gently_.If they're, ah, _firm_, then they're good. Oh, and make sure they aren't…_bruised _or anything."

"I see."

The vendor—a smiling, elderly woman—looks amused by our conversation. Her cheeks dimple as Joker raises an eyebrow and leans on the wood crate, looking skeptically at me. He twitches his head, moving the dark tangled strands swaying in his eyes.

"You really _haven't _gone grocery shopping before, have you?"

I roll my eyes and look at the apples in my hands, doing as he says, inspecting them for any problems. "These look good. Anything else we need?"

Joker puts the apples in the burlap bag the vendor gave us, along with an assortment of vegetables and other fruits. "_Hmmmm…_I think that's _it_ for the healthy stuff."

"Good."

I glance around the bustling indoor marketplace—watching as Schiff ducks and weaves through the other shoppers, a spring in his step as he slings two more burlap bags over his shoulders. Interestingly, several people smile and wave in his direction, girls in particular. Chatter and the sounds of cars outside in Saint Mary's street mingle in the multi-flavored air, reminding me almost of home.

Joker teaches me how to play the "haggling game", much to the vendor's vaguely-displeased expression, and we walk off with our wallets a little lighter.

"Y'know, Batsy…I'm a bit, ah, _shocked _that you knew how to _pay _for stuff," Joker says coolly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

I push him to one side with only so much malice as his lips twitch into a smile, the latex over his scars stretching to accommodate.

"Contrary to the tabloids, I _did _learn something in school."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ you did." Joker snorts, clearly trying not to laugh. "'_Teenaged Wayne Found With Cheerleading Squad—Tests Still Being Taken!_' Isn't that one of the, ah, _tamer _headlines from your frat boy days?"

"I'm sure you have worse headlines attached to your name."

"_Welllll_…" Joker scratches his chin, well-worn leather shoes squeaking as he walks. "Probably. But they don't…_count_, y'know? I mean, _Gotham _is where it _matters._"

"I guess you're right." I watch as Schiff scrambles toward us—if he had a tail, it would be wagging. "What else do we need?"

Joker grins as Schiff stops in front of him, holding his bags open for inspection. "Nice _job_, Schiff. Salmon, mozzarella cheese, chicken…_oooh_, and fresh, _warm bread_ too."

Schiff beams as Joker pats him on the back. "Anything else, Bo—I mean, Mr. J?"

It would be strange to have a young man call another "Boss" in this situation. Joker was smart enough to make sure Schiff got the idea.

"Well, we _do _need a camera." Joker looks at me, a familiar gleam in his eyes. "And we _might _need other things…"

"Then let's go." I take my share of the bags and look over the (very useful) map of the market in my pocket. "We're going to have to go downstairs to get to the electronics."

Schiff is already heading toward the stairs, as Joker wraps his arm around my elbow and drags me after him, calling for Schiff to "Wait _up_, we're not on a, ah, _time limit _here…"

"He likes it here," I say, as we hurry down the steps, Schiff already way ahead of us.

"Yeah, I didn't really…_expect _that." Joker scratches his head as Schiff flags us down from a makeshift pet store, pointing excitedly at a wriggling mass of puppies. "It could make things a little, ah, _difficult _later, but…we won't _know _until we _know_, _y'know?_"

"Right." I'm distracted by Schiff petting a particularly enthusiastic Border Collie pup, as its littermates crowd around, seeking attention.

Joker giggles and ambles over to Schiff, who is laughing as the pup licks his hand. The vendor—a kindly old man—is smiling with a hint of worry as the pups, upon seeing Joker, suddenly calm down a little and sit back on their haunches, tails wagging, but slower now. A variety of breeds are present, and all of them are more than willing to have a home. There are cats, too, and birds, and some of the more conventional pets, and all of them must be putting on their most endearing faces for us.

"_Boss?_" Schiff holds up the Collie. They both have the same expression. "_Look _at him, Boss! He could be a great guard!"

Joker looks at the pup, and holds out his hand. The pup sniffs for a moment, then lets Joker pet him.

A small, spastic grin lights up Schiff's face. "Isn't he great?"

I watch as Joker stares at the pup, then at Schiff, then at me, then at the litters and clusters of animals pouring on the charm. I can see the wheels turning in his head, as the pup pants and wriggles.

The vendor is starting to look impatient, and we're going to need to make a decision soon. But Joker's the sort of person who takes his time with choices. He likes making people stew in their own needs. (Of course I know this).

Joker sighs. "Well…_sorry_, Schiff, but…we _can't. _Jack's more than enough, and think about it—it's another _mouth _to feed, and we don't need…_interference _with our _schedules_…"

I can tell by Joker's agitated smile that he isn't exactly pleased with his decision. Interesting.

Schiff's eager smile melts into a pathetic frown. His eyes are tearing up even as the pup wriggles in his arms. "But—_But_—!"

"No _buts_, Schiff." Joker leans over to me and whispers "What can I say, I'm a _cat _guy. Though we _could _just…"

"Don't even think about it," I say, feeling sick already. Schiff's face grows slightly pale.

"Okayokay_okaaaay_," Joker grumbles, eying the pups one last time before dragging Schiff and I away. "Let's _go_. We have _food _to much on!"


	4. Chapter 4: Gordon

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, nor the Miranda Rights. I do own most of Joker's henchmen (save Thomas Schiff).

**Chapter Four: Gordon**

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* * *

**

I hate to admit it, but I'm glad to be chasing down one of Joker's men through the most crime-torn parts of the Narrows. I've actually been doing _paperwork_ for the last two days.

There was a time when paperwork was a luxury, but that was when Gotham was crawling with a "new breed" of criminal. Now, we're almost bored.

This particular guy and his "pals" were trying to vandalize a primary school—_my son's _primary school—with slogans such as "THE REAPER IS YOUR FRIEND" or "LOVE THE ATOMIC BOMB". The clown masks were a dead giveaway, of course.

It's strange—this is not something Joker would bother to do. He doesn't have any reason—sane or otherwise—to vandalize a primary school. There's no moral gain here.

No, Joker can't be behind this one.

But just in case, I'm out with a small crew to investigate—and hopefully we'll put the perps behind bars.

Unfortunately, the clowns split up, and here I am, chasing one of them down.

I know that most police commissioners don't do this sort of thing, but then most commissioners don't work in _Gotham._ You have to do radical things sometimes to keep everything in check…and it's been _really _quiet. This is a chance for me to check on the effectiveness of my team.

The man doesn't look back at me as he jumps over trashcans, and upsets two scrawny cats mating loudly on a cardboard box. I sidestep them—I can't help but grin as they look accusingly in my direction, cleaning themselves off in a way that says "We meant to do that".

I notice that the man is holding something close to his chest—a weapon? Or something else?

There's only one way to find out.

The man kicks up a pile of garbage, spraying me with it. I cough and brush the gunk out of my eyes—just in time to see the man turn left down another alleyway. I follow close behind him. Hopefully luck will be on my side.

But then again, Joker doesn't let you catch him or any of his men for no reason. Luck has nothing to do with it.

As it turns out, I have my man after all. He's struggling to crawl over a chain-link fence with one hand, panicking.

"Step away from the fence and put your hands over your head, where I can see them," I order, pointing my gun at his trembling, beanpole body.

Judging by the way he moves, he's adjusting to his current weight—as though he weighed more. And recently. Interesting.

"You know the drill, I'm sure. _You have the right to remain silent_…"

The man begins whining.

"…_Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law_…"

He's still thinking of escaping—I can see it in his dark, feverish eyes.

"…_You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense_."

I quickly handcuff him and begin to search him. He's wearing a black Safari-type jacket, with telltale bulges.

I find several hand grenades, a MAC-10 (a favorite of Joker's men) tucked into his belt, spray paint for the graffiti, and…a small manilla folder addressed to "_The Head Pig of GCPD_" in a familiar purple scrawl. I can only guess it's for me. I'm beginning to feel like the hunted instead of the hunter.

But maybe I've been reading too many Raymond Chandler novels.

"I was expecting something worse," I say, holding up the folder.

The man blinks and gives me a small smile.

I pocket the folder and look over my suspect. "What's your name?"

The man gulps. "_Boss_," he whines, struggling in the handcuffs. "_Boss!_"

"Is that your name?"

The man shakes his head. "_Boss._" He inclines his head toward himself.

"Do you mean…who's your Boss?"

The man lets out a passable imitation of Joker's cackle. I get the feeling I may need some kind of translator when I bring him to the MCU.

"Can you talk?"

The man gives me a look that reminds me of Barbara in her more "sarcastic teenager" moments.

I can't help but wonder what exactly Joker _did_ to make this man this way. There are thousands of options, unfortunately—the many versions of psychological manipulation (Joker would probably use a combination of intimidation and praise), or just cold-blooded torture…or a combination of both. I wonder if this man has his tongue intact.

Or maybe he was simply this way when Joker found him, curled up behind a dumpster or struggling to fight off some thugs. The debt of one's life is a hard one to repay—I know, thanks to The Batman—and if Joker continued to "save" him repeatedly, well, the debts would stack up and this man would be paying forever.

Joker does inspire loyalty in his men, but not through any means I could use for my team.

The man clears his throat. I look down and notice that he is trying to draw something in the grimy dirt with his boot: **BoSs bOy**. His name.

"'Boss Boy', is it?"

He nods, looking pleased with himself. "Boss."

"I see. Well." I help him up and march him to my car, my S&W pressing into his back. "We'll have plenty of time to think things over when you're behind bars."

Boss Boy—whata name—starts struggling again, but I keep him moving, feeling the manilla folder shift in my pocket.


	5. Chapter 5: Joker

This shouldn't have taken so long to write. But I wrote it, and I am happy.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_. The "Worm Song" is a song from my childhood, and thus I can't really credit anyone for it. I do own this plot.

**Chapter Five: Joker**

It's well past lunchtime when we get back to the cottage (meaning it's 7:00 back in Gotham, but then _who's counting?_), and we're _really _hungry.

Hungry enough that I dump the bread onto the kitchen table—never_ mind _plates—and grab one of the kitchen knives, ready to…_slice and dice_, as always. (I'm going to, ah, _sharpen 'em up _later, though). Batsy looks out the window as Schiff—for _some _reason—holds his hands close to his body. Closer than…you'd _expect._

"Something wrong, Schiff?" I ask, as the bread crust _crackles _with each saw.

"…Last time we had bread, that didn't really work out, Boss…" Schiff fidgets and looks to one side. He's looking _really _uncomfortable.

"_Hmm?_ Really?" I pause and scratch my head, watching as Batsy glances in our direction, looking…_sort-of _interested. "I don't remember."

You _know _you're good with knives when you can cut _and _talk without even having to move a finger. Like they say in theatre: _rep_e_ti_tion_, rep_e_ti_tion_, rep_e_ti_tion_…_

Schiff gives me a pained smile. "Seymour's finger?"

"_Ohhhh_, _that _time!" I giggle and give Schiff a, ah, _re_a_ssuring_ look. "That won't happen _this _time, Schiff, I'm com_plete_ly under—"

**THUNK.**

I stare down at the knife, which is trying to…_meld _with the wood table. The bread, for the most part, is okay. The _pre-sliced _part, that is. The other is…kind-of _smushed _into the table too_._

"Yes, control is definitely one of your many talents," Batsy says quietly from his spot at the window, a small smile threatening to break free.

"And taunting _a guy with a knife_ is one of _yours_," I reply sweetly, _wrenching _the knife out of the table and looking it over for any…_broken _bits_._ "_Now. _Somebody get the butter."

"On it," Batsy says, making his way over to the fridge. "We'll need a knife, too—just in case there are splinters in the bread."

_Funny_ guy. His mind recently had a, ah, _change of scene _and he's _still _being oh-so-_prac_ti_cal._ I…_guess _that's a good thing.

Two sticks of butter and another oh-so-_shiny_ knife are now on the table, courtesy of Batsy.

"O_kay_." I pick up my slice and scrape a dollop of butter onto it, handing the knife—_carefully_—over to Schiff. "_Dig in_, folks."

And so we _munch _and _crunch _our way through a loaf of bread. It doesn't take much to fill us up—bread _does _that to a person, y'know? It's taste_less_, but _tasty. _

…And com_plete_ly off-topic.

"Did you see that fishing pole out back?" Batsy asks as he stuffs the bread into one of the, ah, _breadboxes _(or _whatever_ they call 'em in Wales). "I'm sure there are plenty of fish to catch in the river."

"Sounds like a…_fine _idea to me." I get up and head over to the bedroom, giggling as the floor _creeeeeeeaks _underfoot. "I'll go get my, ah, _gear._"

"You realize that you're practicing materialism by buying those stupid clothes," Batsy calls, sounding _almost _stern. "If you keep this up you'll turn into a consumerist American everyman."

I gasp at the…_horror _of the idea as I pull on my purple fishing vest (now with extra pockets for _tackle_, only $140!), straw hat ($13 for those of us with…_style_) and green waders ($200 for _no reason whatsoever_).

"Stop, Batsy, you're making me _shake_! _What _would Gotham _do _without my, ah, _'grab-whatever's-useful_' ways?"

"For all we know, they'd be very happy."

"Oh, they _wish_."

I can hear my cellphone _ring-ring-ringing_ in the distance.

"Hello?" Batsy's answering the phone. "Oh, Seymour…yeah?"

I adjust my hat and _pluck _the stupid tag out of the straw and away from my face.

"…Good. Keep us posted."

I trudge out of the bedroom and out of the house as Batsy follows silently behind me, Schiff close behind him. At the river's edge, I crouch down and look at the water, trying to see if any…_good catches _are down there. It'd be _preeeetty _stupid to just, ah, _throw out the line _and not _know_ what's out there, right?

Right right right.

I grin and kick off my shoes on the grass, poking my toes in the coldcold_cold_ water and watching as a few fishes come to, ah, _investigate._ Their bodies glimmer in the sun as they swim over and flash away, in a half-blink of an eye. _Quick _little guys. I'm gonna have to be quick too if we want a little…_mercury _in our blood.

I bring my toes back out of the water and just…_drop _to the ground, making sure that I don't cast any _shadows _over the water. It just wouldn't _do _to be so, ah, _obvious_.

Schiff, loyal _pup_ that he is, hands me the fishing rod without a sound. I grab one of my little, shiny…_tackle-thingamagigs_, attach it to my hook and…_cast out._

"We have worms too," Batsy reminds me, as he shows his usual, ah, _prepping skills _by tossing me a tiny Styrofoam cup-o'-worms.

"'_Nobody likes me, everybody hates me/Guess I'll go eat worms'…_" I sing, popping open the cover and reaching around inside.

Schiff makes a face as I pluck out a really…_wriggly _one, nice and fat and _juicy_, and hold it up for in_spec_tion.

"…'_Big fat juicy ones_, _teeny-tiny skinny ones/That make my insides squirm'!"_

Batsy's expression is _priceless_—and when I dangle Mr. Worm over my wide-open mouth, well, that just makes it…_better._

"Don't _worry_, it's just, ah, _protein_," I say, cackling as I _almost _drop Mr. Worm and Batsy's eyebrow twitches. "Used to eat 'em _alllllll _the time in school."

Well, _maybe_ I did. You never _know_, y'know?

Suddenly, there's a…_tug_. My fishing pole's being a bit more, ah, _bendy _than it should be. So I give it a _yank_, and try to reel it in, then a_nother_ yank, and the pole's bending even _more_ now, so I yankandreeland_yank_ until _finally _the fish _flops _out of the water…with the hook deep in its mouth.

I glare at the fish as it flops around, giving itself even _more _trouble. "_Hey_, now, hold _still_…"

I grab it and _try _to keep it from moving, but it's a _stubborn _bastard. I squeeze it a little…_harder_. Not enough to, ah, _squish _it or anything—it's gonna be _dinner_.

"Need a hand?" Batsy crouches down beside me, _trying _not to smile.

"Nope, nope, _nope_," I reply, giving him as strong a glare as I possibly can. "I _know_ what I'm doing, Batsy."

"All right." Batsy sighs and sits down a little _too _far away from me. "Don't blame me if you shred the thing to ribbons."

"'_Course_ not!" I giggle and begin fiddling with the line, as the fish gapes at me. "After all, _you _weren't the one who _told _me about this pole."

The fish doesn't stop wriggling. _Stupid thing._ I _squeeze _and watch as it's eyes slowly…_grow._ There's Batsy sitting with his arms around his knees, chin resting on his knees, looking out at the _bubblyburblybabbly_ river.

"By the way, Seymour called. He said that Boss Boy had been captured by Gordon and is in jail as we speak. Gordon found the letter."

"Oh, _good. That'll _keep him busy for awhile, _hmmm_?"

Batsy nods, looking a little…_out of it._

I can hear Schiff muttering behind me. I decide to, ah, in_ves_tigate.

"Something wrong, Schiffy?" I ask as I turn to face him, still working on that hook.

"Um….nothing, Boss!"

He slides his skinny, jean-covered legs closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. A small, worried smile is on his face.

_Awwwwwww_, how…_sweet. _He's _subtly hero-worshipping. _

I grit my teeth and look back at my, ah, _catch-to-be._ "Y'know, I'm a little…_sad _about your lack of, ah, _trust_ in me, guys. When I _say _I'm going to catch a fish, I _will _catch a fish."

"_I _trust you, Boss." Schiff—smart kiddo he is—inches _slooooowly _away from me, keeping his eyes on the fish.

"And you already know my opinion," Batsy says, moving…a _little closer_ to me.

And, ah, I'm not really _sure _how to react to that. So I try to get the hook out of the fish again.

Sure, you folks at home may think there's an…_obvious _reaction, but really there _isn't. _Because while Batsy's a bit more, ah, _chilled out _than he used to be, that doesn't mean he's not without his stubborn, awkward moments.

Remember the post-"Mob Party" car ride, where he was being all…_touchy-feely? _That little moment made a _total _180 when we got in the plane. Looks like he's still…not _sure _of where he is these days. I think I'm going to need a little…per_sua_sion to give him a good idea.

But he's _closer _now. Without _any _ma_nip_u_la_tion from me.

Now if _that's _not a confidence booster…

I let out a little chuckle as I _tug_ on the fishing line, feeling the hook _sliiiiide _out of the fish inch by inch.

"…Joker?" Batsy taps me on the shoulder, and my little thought bubble…_bursts._

"_What_?" I growl, as I look down at my fish.

…Which isn't really a _fish _anymore—more like a…shredded pile of bleeding _guts _attached to a hook that's…_somewhere _therein the remains_._

"…Whoops…" I hold the…_ribbons o' fish _up to get a closer look. "Looks to _me_ like fish isn't, ah, _on the menu _tonight."

Batsy's eyebrow twitches again. "Next time, let me get the hook out."


	6. Chapter 6: Gordon  Notice

**ATTENTION:** This will be the last chapter for a while—my original characters are suddenly resurfacing as my muses, and I'd like to work on their story as well.

In short: I'm not _dropping_ this fic, I'm just taking a break. Wouldn't want a half-baked pile of words, would we?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight, _nor the rest of the DCU_. Lacrimosa _belongs to Mozart, though it's in the Public Domain.

**Chapter Six: Gordon**

"_You're watching _Gotham Tonight_! At 4:00 a.m. this morning, our sources are reporting the discovering of what is believed to be the remains of Gotham's missing have been found in a remote glacial crevasse. Only one corpse was clothed, and its identity is pending. Further investigation is under way._"

Hmm… I switch the station.

BEEP.

"…_Lex Luthor claims Daily Planet journalist Clark Kent is an illegal alien—_"

I turn the DVD slowly over in my hands, staring at the blood-red words "PLAY ME :D".

BEEP.

"…'_Batman' costumes are flying off the shelves for Halloween—"_

No comment.

I place the DVD in the player.

BEEP.

"…_Was it truly 'Mad Love' that killed Harleen Quinzel, The Joker's Psychiatrist? Doctor Joan Leeland investigates—"_

They should have begun investigating a year ago. I'll have to call Dr. Leeland and discuss her findings…

BEEP.

The DVD loads.

CLICK. WHIRR.

"**Greetings, Commissioner!**" Joker's voice is strangely calm as he reads the words on the screen. The font is "Marker Felt", almost painfully white against a screen of royal purple.

"**If my sources are right, this song's a favorite of yours.**"

Mozart's _Lacrimosa _is playing in the background. He's right…again.

"**Welcome to life, Gordon.**"

Eerily calm.

"**Life is **_**tough**_**, isn't it. Life is…**_**deadly**_**. It stabs you like…a**_** knife**_**…over and over and **_**over**_** again until you just. Can't. **_**Breathe.**_"

A blood-stained knife flashes on the screen, followed by a picture of a glacier…a yawning crevasse.

Joker continues: "**Life is a bowl of rotten cherries, Commissioner. Only a few**__**have, ah, edible **_**meat**_**.** **So keep your, ah, **_**perishables**_** nice and **_**cold**_**.**"

A chill crawls up my spine.

"**Life is a Roller Coaster, leaving the track at a…high-speed **_**curve**_**. It's a**_** joke**_** with a punch-line only my, ah, **_**friend**_** and I**__**would get. But don't worry, we don't mind letting **_**you **_**in on it."**

_Lacrimosa _suddenly stops, leaving only Joker's oh-so-calm, yet still mocking, voice.

"**Lesson #1 will begin sooner or, ah, **_**later**_**.—J & 9." **


	7. Chapter 7: Gordon

…Sorry for the wait, everyone. My original work is secure for the moment, so off we go…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or any of the characters related to Batman. I own this plot.

**Chapter Seven: Gordon**

**

* * *

**

Dr. Joan Leeland looks up from her computer after I close the door behind me.

"Good day, Comissioner." She closes her laptop and gives me her undivided attention. "You wanted to see about The Joker's time here, am I right?"

Dr. Leeland is a striking young woman. Her height is average, her clothes sensible…but her eyes are a piercing, intelligent blue. She's learned not to blink often—in case she misses something.

"Yes." I glance around the room, taking in the PhD certificate and the shelves full of psychiatry books. "You still have the records, right?"

"Paper records, taped therapy sessions, which block he was in…we have it all." Dr. Leeland brushes her dark hair out of her face. "What would you like to look at first?"

"The records and tapes might be for the best." I clear my throat. "Do you have a TV or something I could use?"

Dr. Leeland smiles knowingly. "Looks like you're smart enough to know Arkham's policy. 'No records are to leave the building', Article 12, page 13. Actually, the TV and VCR player should be right behind you. If you could pull it up…"

"Sure, sure." I roll the TV—on a wheeling table—closer to the desk, and Dr. Leeland pulls up a chair for me.

"I wish we had a bigger budget to work with," Dr. Leeland says, placing the first tape into the VCR. "Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne passed away before we could finalize the deal."

I don't comment.

The TV crackles with static, begins playing.

The setting is a small, gray office—more like a cell. The camera is positioned so that both patient and psychiatrist are in the frame. A table stands between two chairs—and I can see a small red panic button just within pressing range on the near side of the table.

"The Board decided to take special precautions after the…_Crane _fiasco." Dr. Leeland sounds almost apologetic.

"It's always good to be on your toes, Doctor."

A young woman walks into view—blonde hair tied back in a bun, bleach-white lab coat over a dark business suit. I can't help but notice her skirt is an inch shorter than professional. And unnervingly suggestive for a professional setting.

"Harleen Quinzel had more than one rumor swirling about her, unfortunately," Dr. Leeland says softly.

On the TV, a _crash _is heard. Two orderlies march in, carrying a squirming, growling menace in a ragged orange jumpsuit, long oily hair flying about as he kicks and gnashes his teeth.

"_Tranquilize him, please._" Dr. Quinzel opens a manila folder and shuffles her papers around.

The guard holding the man in a chokehold digs pulls a syringe out of his pocket and prepares to inject the man. The man suddenly turns his head and looks at Dr. Quinzel, leering at her.

"_Well hel_lo_ there, Barbie Girl._" The Joker giggles loudly as the needle punctures his arm. "_Nice suit, but, ah…something _flashier _would be nice. Like…a…_body-bag_."_

He barely finishes his sentence before he goes slack, having to be dragged over to the chair and dumped like a rag doll, hands cuffed behind his back for good measure. Dr. Quinzel motions for the orderlies to leave, and they file out the door.

The Joker groans and sits up, looking unsteady. He blinks once, then focuses on Dr. Quinzel.

"_Good morning, Patient 71408. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I'm going to be your therapist during your stay at Arkham._"

The Joker simply stares at her, a drowsy smile on his face. Without his makeup, he looks eerily young, even with the thick ridges of his scars.

"_You've been in Arkham for two weeks now. Is everything comfortable?_"

The Joker laughs softly. "_Silly girl. Sillysilly_silly._ This, ah, this _isn't _a five-star hotel, y'know. Well… maybe you _do _know._"

Dr. Quinzel frowns. "_What do you mean, Patient 7—_"

"_Look—_look. _Just…call me 'J' or something. _I _don't care, just—no numbers. Hate numbers._"

"_Well, Patient J…why do you hate numbers?" _Dr. Quinzel picks up her pen, looking attentive.

The Joker looks at her as though she grew two heads. "_Because of…con_for_mi_ty_. Of course._"

"_I see._" Dr. Quinzel makes a note. "_Do you fear conformity?_"

"_Uh…_no._ No, I _don't_. I _hate _it, I don't _fear _it, puddin'-pop. _Huuuuuge _difference there._"

"_Interesting._" Another scribbled sentence.

The Joker rolls his eyes and fidgets in his chair. "…_Y'know, if you keep me, ah, _interested_, maybe I can actually give you some…_juicy info _on myself. Mano y mano…or mano y _chica_, right? _

"_I believe simply _Doctor _would be best, Patient J._"

"See? _A conversation. Take and give, give and take, etc._"

"_I'm sorry, Patient J, but 'giving' isn't a part of my job…at least at this point of our relationship._"

"_Then _forget _your precious _job _for a sec. Just. _Do. _It._"

The two stare at each other. Suddenly I get the feeling that Dr. Quinzel is already in over her head. It's hard to believe that these sessions lasted a whole year.

"_I believe that's all the time we have for today, Patient J._"

The Joker scowls at her. He doesn't say anything.

Suddenly, the tape crackles with static.

"That's all the first session was," Dr. Leeland says, ejecting the tape and placing it back in its case. "For the next seven sessions, he did nothing but stare silently at Dr. Quinzel. He didn't answer any of her questions, no matter how trivial."

"…How many drugs did you have him on at the time?" I watch as Dr. Leeland checks the written record.

"He was taking Abilify, Chlorpromazine, and occasionally the tranquilizer we use on rowdy patients. Chlorpromazine was particularly hard to administer to him."

"Oh."

Suddenly, my phone rings. I answer it quickly.

It's Barbara. "_Jim, I'm taking the kids up to Mom's house for the weekend. Don't worry, we'll be safe there._"

She doesn't sound like someone is forcing her to say that. But you can't be too sure.

"I'll come help you pack."

"_No, Jim, it's okay, I have everything. It's all right. Nobody's pointing a gun at us._"

Little Jim pipes up "_It's okay, Dad. I'm bringing my action figures with me._"

"Okay, then. Have fun. Love you all."

Barbara softly replies "_You too_" and hangs up. I put my phone back in my pocket and breathe out.

"Is something wrong, Comissioner?" Dr. Leeland asks, her therapist tone instantly working.

"No, everything's fine. Thank you, Dr. Leeland."

"Shall we go to the next tape?"

"Yes."


	8. Chapter 8: Gordon

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or Andre Breton's works. I own this plot.

**Chapter Eight: Gordon**

**

* * *

**

Dr. Leeland moves back to her seat as the TV crackles with silent static. "This is Session Eight."

"I'm guessing Dr. Quinzel finally asked Joker the question he wanted to answer."

Dr. Leeland chuckles dryly. "It was ridiculously simple."

The next recorded session begins.

The Joker and Dr. Quinzel are already seated. The Joker is fidgeting uncomfortably—but his hands are free. Apparently they trusted that he was safely sedated.

Dr. Quinzel is as poised as ever—but there's a droop to her shoulders that wasn't there before. But that may be the camera angle—they're both in profile for this session.

"_Good evening, Patient J._" Dr. Quinzel's voice is as falsely cheery as _Gotham Tonight_._ "How is everything today? Or are you just going to sulk some more?"_

The Joker raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

"_I'm growing tired of your games, Patient J._"

The Joker's lips twitch, and his hands lazily flatten onto the desk. He looks at the table, seeming fascinated by something—a doodle, or a scratch.

"_You haven't been answering my questions about your dreams or your memories, or even what you had for dinner, so…I'm going to ask you what I hope is a more interesting question._"

Back in reality, I inwardly wince and hope that she won't ask about his scars. On the TV, The Joker doesn't even bother to look up from the table.

"_When you were causing terror in Gotham, you seemed fixated on The Batman._" Dr. Quinzel leans forward, fingers pressed together."_Why?_"

The Joker's head suddenly snaps up, and the most deranged smile I've ever seen on him lights up his face. He looks like something straight out of a horror movie.

Dr. Quinzel, to her credit, reaches toward the panic button.

"…_Well, _Doctor_, that's a…_funny_ question!_" The Joker leans forward a little more. "_Tell me, are you using, ah, _Freudian _or _Jungian _theories? 'Cause I can fit the answer to _either_._"

"_I just want an answer, Patient J._"

The Joker leans back in his chair, sighing. "_Batman is…the _ketchup _to my _bicycle_._"

Dr. Quinzel pauses in the middle of writing another note. "_…What did you say?_"

"_He's the…_Mick Jagger _to my _Anais Nin_. The _macaroni _to my _accordion. _See?_"

"_Do you mean by that…The Batman is your opposite?_"

The Joker leans forward, licking his scars. "You _put me on these drugs, _you _tell _me."

Dr. Quinzel gestures toward the camera. "_Would you like me to end the session?_"

The Joker shakes his head. "_Nono_nooooo_, not. At. _All. _You asked a useful question._ _See…_The Batman _is a little like _me._ He's smart enough to know how _weird _this world is. How…_bendy _all those rules really are. But _here's _the kicker—he's _repressing it._ I've seen it, the way he acts all _righteous _one minute, and the next—_BANG! _He's _grabbed _you by the collar, and he's just _wailing _on you, like a, like a _freight train on acid_, and…_"

Dr. Quinzel slowly inches her chair backward as The Joker continues raving, his eyes wide, his hands waving in the air.

My head's beginning to pound at the speed of his words. _He's _like a freight train on acid.

Dr. Leeland pauses the tape and clears her throat. "We're still not quite sure what happened here, if it was the drugs talking, or if he planned all this out. However…"

She presses play. On screen, The Joker suddenly goes very still. His hands slowly fall to the table, palms down. Dr. Quinzel watches him, her hands gripping the pen tightly.

"…_It's getting, ah, _boring _in my cell, _Doc._ Think I could maybe have something to…dis_tract _me?_"

Dr. Quinzel sighs and continues writing. "_I'm sorry, Patient J, but…_"

She looks up, and The Joker has gone quiet again. He still isn't moving.

"_I see. You're simply going to behave like a child until I comply, is that right?_"

The Joker grins. "_You'd better be_lieve_ it, lady._"

The tape turns to static once again. Dr. Leeland ejects the tape.

"Did you take him off the drugs?"

"Over months, yes. We weaned him off the medication—we were naïve enough to think The Joker was making _progress._" She laughs as though it hurts her throat. "In the meantime, he read books, and a lot of them. His requests were unique, to say the least."

"How so?"

"At first, he asked for books on Surrealism—Andre Breton was a favorite of his, apparently. Then he asked for horror novels. In winter, he asked for sex manuals—apparently he had never 'bothered' with that sort of thing before. But that's according to _him_, and we all know how reliable The Joker is. He continued reading those until mid-May."

"Was Dr. Quinzel able to get on with her research?"

"Dr. Quinzel asked a variety of questions—and The Joker answered.

She did finally ask about his scars, but he became too unruly and the session had to be cut short. At other times they would simply talk psychiatric theory, or anything that came up—mainly The Batman, or little 'Jokerisms' on Life. These 'therapy sessions' lasted a year, as you know. He began to call her Harley, and she did not object."

I can see it: The Joker sitting there, hands waving like a magician performing magic tricks, with the poor Dr. Quinzel stuck there listening to him. I can see her slowly growing to believe in him, learning to understand his warped logic.

Dr. Leeland pulls out another tape and examines it. "This is the final session. Dr. Quinzel was convinced that she was making progress with him—she was so happy with a job well done."

After a moment of static, doctor and patient come into view.

The Joker sighs and runs his hands through his hair, looking almost forlorn. Dr. Quinzel—or maybe Harley—on the other hand, is bright and cheery, almost manic.

"_So, Patient J, how are you feeling today?_"

"_Oh, fine, _fiiiiiiine._ Nothing, ah, fan_tas_tic to report._"

"_Well, I suppose that's a good thing._" Dr. Harley smiles and shuffles her papers. "_I was thinking that we could talk today about your opinion of Arkham, now that you've been here a year._"

The Joker seems to suddenly come to a decision. "_…_Well_, Harley…I think it's about time I, ah, stop _vacationing _and go back _home_. This place is starting to get a bit…_stale_, y'know?_"

Dr. Harley shakes her head, smiling sadly. "_I'm sorry, Patient J, but you can't leave here. Not until all the papers are signed, and—_"

"_Oh, _Harley." The Joker looks at her as though she's his misbehaving daughter. "_Harley, Harley, _Har_ley. Don't you _know _me by now? Have I taught you _anything _this whole year? I don't follow _rules. _Rules…follow…_me."

"_What has gotten into you today? Is it the medication? The room?_"

"_No. _No. _I'm experiencing a _liiiiiittle _something called…_cabin fever._ Heard of it?_"

"_If you keep on your best behavior, you'll be out of here in no time, Patient J._"

"_I'm _sick _of playing goody-goody. And I'm running out of…_in_spir_at_ion with you. You wouldn't be of any use to me out _there._ In Gotham, you'd be just another chain 'round my neck._ _Wouldn't wanna _choke myself_ to death._"

Dr. Harley swallows hard. But she squares her shoulders and reaches for the panic button. "_I think we'll end this session here, Patient J._ _You're acting much too unruly today._"

"…_So you're gonna _drop _me, huh? _Good. _Better we _both _get this…_thing _over with. Maybe I'll, ah, _recommend _you to The Bat. Or have a go at Crane, see what _he _can…_scare up _for you!_"

The Joker cackles as the orderlies march in, tranquilizers ready. They inject a needle into his neck and drag him away like a wounded soldier. Dr. Harley is left sitting at the empty table, her head in her hands.

The tape stops. Dr. Leeland clears her throat.

"The Joker left that night. His cell was empty—save for this." She hands me a piece of paper, ripped and old. "As far as we can tell, it's from Andre Breton's book _L'amour Fou._"

I adjust my glasses and look carefully at the paper. The last line in particular has been underlined—by The Joker?

"_There has never been any forbidden fruit. Only temptation is divine. To feel the need to vary the object of this temptation, to replace it by others—this bears witness that one is about to be found unworthy, __that one has already doubtless proved unworthy of __innocence__…"_

Dr. Leeland looks down at the floor. "Dr. Quinzel had left the office before The Joker's escape. When she returned, she checked his cell, found the paper, and went into her office. An orderly found her in the afternoon, long dead, bleeding from her wrists."

My chest feels heavy as I sigh and get up. "Do you think that anything The Joker said during those sessions has any value, Doctor?"

Dr. Leeland looks up at me, eyes cold. "No, Commissioner."

I have other thoughts on the matter, but it's getting late. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Leeland."

"You're welcome, Comissioner. Please feel free to call if you have any questions."


	9. Chapter 9: Batsy

And now, the moment(s?) you've all been waiting for…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _I do own Charlie.

**Chapter Nine: Batsy**

**

* * *

**

Joker sits comfortably by the river, dipping his long toes in the cold water.

I'm still half-asleep, shuffling out to meet him in a blue bathrobe and slippers. The cold, wet dew-dripping grass brushes across my legs.

"You weren't here last night, Joker."

I sit down beside him, watching as he scrubs at his multi-patterned shirt with a bar of soap, trying his best to get the dried bloodstains out. He's still wearing his pants and his tie.

"I know. I wanted to go out. I just—needed to do something a little more…_me_."

I watch as the dried blood slowly dissolves and drifts down the river, like a red snake slithering out of sight. "Anything comedic happen?"

Joker rubs his chin, looking thoughtful. "_Welllll_…I killed a wannabe-rapist, sent the lady-victim home with his entrails wrapped 'round her neck, and…_acquired _a puppy for Schiff."

"Sounds like fun…but did you steal the dog?"

Joker gives me a look. "_No_, I asked _nicely_. Of _course _I stole it—and other dog-stuffs, of course.

I roll my eyes and lean back, watching the gray clouds move in.

"I _would _have brought you along, but you were, ah, _out of it._ Just crawled _right _into bed and slept like a rock."

I blink and run over the "comedy list" again. "Wait…did you _save _somebody?"

"I needed a…_change of pace._" Joker looks at me, suddenly very solemn. "Batsy, I hate to say it, but I'm _bored._ We've checked out all the shops, we've fished, we've slept in late, we've walked around the moors…but I miss _Gotham. _And I'm sure you do too."

I sigh. "Yes, I do. But I think there's still things we can do here. We haven't thought of everything yet…"

A chilly wind pushes against us, whispering against our ears, so it must be autumn.

We haven't checked a calendar since we came to Wales. There's been no real need to—the point, at least in Joker's mind, is to get all the "due-date _cra_zi_ness_" out of my head. I have no problem with that—but then, I've never liked having a desk job…

Before we can say anything more, Schiff calls out to us, giddy laughter bubbling up in his voice.

I turn and watch as a golden retriever puppy scampers over to us, Schiff close behind. He's a bundle of fur and energy, eager to please, just like his new owner. He sniffs my shoulder and wags his tail, waiting to be pet.

"Hello," I say softly, as Joker looks at me with a knowing grin. "What's your name?"

"Charlie," Schiff replies, crouching down and petting Charlie near-reverently.

"Nice name, Schiff." Joker laughs as Charlie licks his fingers, tail still wagging.

Schiff smiles and wanders farther down the river, Charlie waddling along after him.

"Joker…" I sigh and stand up, brushing grass off my pants. "Why don't we talk about this inside?"

Joker looks up at me, and standing, nods and follows me toward the house.

"_Soooo…_how _are _we gonna figure this out, _hmm?_" Joker sits on the bed, hands splayed out on his knees, tapping to some beat or other. "I mean, _you _want to _stay_, I want to _go. _I'm…_antsy_…and you're _a-okay._ What to do?"

"Well…" I run a hand through my hair and look at him out of the corner of my eye. "First, it would be a good idea to consider the positives about staying for a little while longer."

Joker grins and keeps tapping his fingers. "Fire away."

"First, admit it, we needed a break from Gotham's stubbornness."

"If you _say _so."

"Second, it keeps us out of the GCPD's hands until we have something new for them to mull over. And you never repeat a joke, as far as I can tell."

Joker looks at me, his eyes half-lidded. "Fine, _fine._ But here's _another _question: how are you going to…_convince _me to go along with you?"

I nudge my slippers off, letting them drop to the floor softly. I keep my eyes on him, running through the many possibilities. _What have we _not _done since we got here…?_

"Uh…that was a _come-on_, by the way."

"I know. I'm thinking about it."

"_Batsy. _You're in a _bathrobe_, in the _bedroom_, with _me._ And Schiff's busy outside. It's not _rocket science._"

"Hmm." I stand up, hands in my bathrobe pockets. "Wouldn't that be a little unproductive?"

Joker laughs and mimics me, his eyes dark. "Oh, like we haven't _not _been lazing around. Come _on_, Batsy, what happened to all that…_post-massacre cuddling _we hadbefore we _got _here?"

I shrug. Joker grins and lurches forward. I snatch his hands and hold them by the wrists tightly. He squirms, still grinning, eyes dark and ready for whatever I can throw at him.

I decide that it might be the best to give him what he so clearly wants—as a way of coming to an agreement. We topple to the floor, our legs tangled up in each other as Joker laughs and we struggle to gain control.

Of course, unlike last time, our wrestling match becomes something quite different.

"It's about _time_," Joker says, his smile best described as indecent. "Funny how, even with _all this free time_, it took until _now _to get you to…_wake up _Mr. Glum_._ And here I thought you were _done _playing 'cold fish'."

I roll my eyes. "Will you ever get sick of those nicknames?"

"Not a _chance. _But…I _thought _we were going to argue about going _home._" Joker's hand rests comfortably on mine. "Where were we?"


	10. Chapter 10: Batsy

…_Hiiiiiiiiiiii_.

Sorry for the wait. Let's see if we can pick up the slack, here…

Disclaimer: I don't own_ The Dark Knight. _Only this plot (and Charlie the puppy).

**Chapter Ten: Batsy**

* * *

In the end, it's all about nerve endings.

Skin is amazing: it bends, twists, moves under even the slightest touch. Beneath the skin are nerves, thousands upon thousands, ready to awaken. Scars are not very receptive to touch, but I can make do.

The feeling of warm blankets against warmer flesh is multifaceted: comforting, yet new. To me, anyway.

Under the right circumstances, even the slightest brush of skin against skin can cause a reaction: a red tint, a bitten lip, fingers curling. A not-so-slight brush evokes an even stronger reaction. The same fingers reach up, run through my hair, pulling me closer, pulling me down.

The lips are packed with nerve endings—and two pairs pressed together with hands skating up spines, tracing and touching, are a very pleasant combination. Muscles strain, shudder, and little nerves prick down the body, lower and lower, all systems go.

It's more difficult than expected to debate a return trip to Gotham while in the mood, but as said before, I can make do.

* * *

I can hear Joker step into the shower as he continues spewing his many examples of why we should go back to Gotham. By this point, I'm tempted to agree just to keep him quiet. Everything from keeping up with politics to missing Betty's pies, he's said it all.

Of course, I have my own reasons, namely rest and relaxation. When we go back to Gotham, we go back to work.

"…And I'll bet Gordon's a little, ah, _anxious _about where we are. We didn't leave him much to _work_ with, y'know."

"True." I can hear the shower water rushing down and over Joker's body, splattering the floor with a hiss. "So, is that the end of your reasoning?"

"Guess so. Does it sound…_reasonable?_"

His tone reminds me of the hour we spent not too long ago.

"Surprisingly, yes." I turn my thoughts of Joker and his persuasive tendencies to Gotham and her stubborn refusal of change.

In some ways, I don't want to leave here. I like Wales and its rolling hills, its moors, and the wandering about we've been able to do. But I do miss Gotham, with its dank alleyways and multi-masked citizens and all the memories that nestle there.

Choices, choices.

Of course, in the end the choice is obvious, and always will be: where I go, Joker goes. Where Joker goes, I go. It's been that way this long, so…

"…Why stop now?" I chuckle and lean against the wall, hands in my pockets and the heady feeling of moving forward coursing through me.

"Hmm? Did you, ah, _say _something, Batsy?"

"Nothing important, no."

Joker snorts. "Yeah, _right._"

I sigh and shake my head. "Are you finished in there?"

"Y'know, Batsy, I'm just…_thrilled _that you've learned the virtues of, ah, _patience. _Really, I'm just _blown away_."

I feel a koan coming on. "Impatience must arrive before patience."

"How very…_zen _of you."

I pick up what we discarded in our "negotiations" (mainly clothes) and dump them on the bed. I can hear Schiff and Charlie walking in, Schiff chattering to the dog about how fun it is to be with "Boss", and what he's done in the name of fun. All of them are things most people would find horrifying, and even I'm a little unsettled still at what it means to be Joker's right-hand Bat.

Or rather, his batman.

Finally, Joker ambles out, a towel hanging around his neck as he dries off his hair. He's dripping all over the floor, and he hasn't even bothered to dry the rest of himself off. His scars wriggle into a smile as he grabs some new clothes and pulls them on.

"_So_," he says, buttoning his red paisley shirt. "When do you want to head out?"

I mull it over. "In a week, I think."

"Sounds good to _me._" Joker looks around the room, quickly finding what he's looking for—his cell phone. "I'll call the boys, tell 'em we're, ah, _on the move._"

Something occurs to me. "Do they trust me, you think?"

"They trust _me_…and I trust _you. _So don't worry about it." Joker grins and the cell phone beeps into life. "Hopefully they haven't, ah, gone _too _crazy while we've been gone."

I fall back onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Leading the GCPD on a wild goose chase should be keeping them entertained. Though I hope Boss Boy's doing alright."

Joker lets out a wheezy chuckle. "Oh, _boy_, would that be fun to see—interrogating _him _is…_tricky. _But where's the fun in _easy answers?_"

"None whatsoever," I reply, watching fragments of sunlight shiver on white plaster.

"So, uh, by the _way_…" Joker's voice is suddenly softer, more thoughtful.

"What?"

"When we go back, you're going to need…a _weapon. _Something to, ah, pro_tect _yourself with. I know you don't like guns, _soooo_…you going to use your old _bag of tricks? _Will they fit in with your new, ah, _look?_"

I think it over. "I think it would make an impression to still use the Batarangs and the other tools. They're my specialty, after all. And besides, Gordon knows them well."

"_True_." Joker's towel drops to the floor with a wet _slap._ "I really _do _love the way you think, Batsy."

I feel the bed creak and bounce as Joker sits down beside me, now talking to Seymour about our return trip. The excitement in his voice slips through one ear and out the other as I feel my eyes droop closed.

I suppose it is time we came back. After all, where would Gotham be without its prodigal sons? (Safe.)


	11. Chapter 11: Gordon

Since I couldn't get a good look at Gordon's daughter in _The Dark Knight_, I'm going to go with comic book canon in regards to her age. With any luck, this will make sense.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot and Boss Boy.

**Chapter Eleven: Gordon**

* * *

Well, it's clear that Boss Boy has nothing to offer—no clue where Joker and his men re located, no idea what their plans are, and even less of an idea as to the significance of the 9 of Spades. He's the imperfect red herring—even if he _was _willing to rat his boss out, his own speech betrays him.

Barbara and the kids are going to be home soon. They'll probably need me to get Babs' wheelchair into the house. I know Babs says that she doesn't need help—and in many cases she doesn't—but her mother can't lift the chair by herself, and Jim can't help much.

"Boss?"

Boss Boy looks curiously at me, pausing his doodling something on the dusty metal table before him.

"Just thinking if you might know anything else," I say. "Something you might have forgotten to mention."

Boss Boy keeps doodling, and something occurs to me.

"Have you and your Boss run into The Batman lately?"

Boss Boy chuckles, shrugs, and shows off his masterpiece—The Batman symbol.

"I see." I stand up, taking my coffee cup with me. "We'll talk again soon."

Boss Boy's eager grin looks nearly identical to Jim's—though Jim's isn't as desperate. Hopefully, it never will be.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's time to go home.

* * *

When I get home, Barbara and Jim are already asleep.

Babs, however, is wide awake in her room, going through news articles. Her red-blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail, with a few wavy strands sticking out haphazardly. Her green nightgown sleeves are rolled up, with marker ink stains on her hands and what looks like bits of glue spattered across her arm. Her wheelchair is dangerously close to bumping against the desk, and it looks like Babs doesn't plan on moving anytime soon.

Someone's been busy.

"Hi, Dad," she says, wheeling to face me. "How was work?"

"Well"—I duck out of the way of a dangling planet mobile hanging from the ceiling—"it could've been better."

Babs picks up a pair of scissors and begins cutting out a news article. "Why?"

"I couldn't get the information I need."

"About The Joker?" _Snip snip snip. _

"That's right." I peer over her shoulder. "Do you think you have any leads?"

Babs frowns. "Maybe. I've been looking at everything I could find that related to him and The Batman."

A corkboard sits innocently on her desk, nearly covered with article after article, some obviously printed, others from the newspaper. Some sentences are underlined (anything mentioning cell phones or bat-sightings). Some articles have notes written on them (_Batman: Lone Ranger? Enterprise?_).

"…Including my Major Crimes Unit?" I ask, noticing the GCPD symbol on one of the many cutouts.

Babs' ears turn pink. "It's—it's not like I'm going to tell anyone."

I rub my temples. "Look, Babs, I know you're a computer whiz, but you can't just barge into official information sites like that."

"I know. I'm sorry. But…" Babs sighs and looks up at me, blue-green eyes wide and hopeful. "I want to help you, Dad. I hate seeing you so tired in the mornings, and after what happened with Harvey Dent—"

I rest my hand on her shoulder. "I understand, Babs. But I don't want you getting too involved. I don't want to lose you…like I almost did that night."

Babs gestures to her college acceptance letter tacked to the wall. "And going to Gotham State University is okay?"

"Well, I'd be lying if I told you I'm not worried. It's not every day a fifteen-year-old goes to college, after all. But I want you to explore a little more before you make any formal decisions."

Babs grins, and I'm amazed at how innocent it seems, even after all that's happened. I do and I don't wish it could stay that way—but this is Gotham, after all. "Innocence" rots in the gutters.

"Can I continue my investigation? I'll ask your permission next time I need some police info."

I shrug. "I suppose so. Who knows, it could be useful. Just don't stay up to the crack of dawn—you have packing to do. And let me know if you turn up anything."

"I will. G'night, Dad."


	12. Chapter 12: Joker

Aaaaaand here's a drive-by ficcing, for lack of a better word. I had planned to be way further ahead in the plot by now. Remember two years ago, when I could update every Saturday? Don't you _miss _that? (Grumblegrumble)

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, _The Divine Comedy _(either of them) or the Haunted House Tours. I do own this plot.

**Chapter Twelve: Joker**

* * *

"Well, it's official," I say from behind my digital camera, as Batsy poses in front of the Roald Dahl Plass…aka _Torchwood Three_. "You…are a _geek._"

Schiff giggles from beside me. "Bat-geek, Bat-geek." His voice is _almost _too quiet to hear.

"Like you aren't," Batsy says, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Just take the picture already. We have a plane to catch."

I grin and make sure everything's…_focused. _I want this picture _clear _and, ah, _easy on the eyes. _Not that Batsy _isn't _easy on the eyes. Even though the blue shirt he's wearing _is _backwards and inside-out. Whoops.

"How'd you even get into the, ah, _sci-fi scene?_"

Batsy shrugs. "I wanted to see what frightens people about the unknown."

"You could've just…_asked me_, y'know."

"You weren't around then. You were…" Batsy gestures toward the distance. "Wherever you were."

I mull it over. "Chi_ca_go, I _think. _Or a little town in Maine."

"Why were you in Maine?"

"For the, ah, _Haunted History Tours_. I was…_big _on ghost stories then."

Schiff reins Charlie the puppy in as he tries to chase after a pigeon. Charlie wags his tail, as oblivious as a dog could be. I'm already a little…_antsy _about bringing him on a plane. See, I know how dogs _tick_. They _hate _cages and rattling and dark spaces.

In other words, Charlie's going to _whine. _And _puke _until there's nothing left. And that's, ah, _no fun at all._

"Say _cheeeeeeeese_," I croon, as Batsy smiles without showing his teeth.

_Click. _

Batsy doesn't move from his spot yet. "Did you get it?"

I check, and look at him accusingly. "You _monster._"

Batsy stares, so…_un_compre_hend_ing. "What?"

"You _blinked._"

Batsy scoffs. "Then we take it again. It's not the end of the world. Besides, you did too in one of those pictures you sent me."

I laugh fondly, but…_quieter _than usual. Don't want to, ah, _spook the locals. _"Ah-_ha. _So you _did _look at them."

Batsy rolls his eyes. "Only for a moment. I had work to do."

"…But did you _keep _them?" I ask, fumbling with the camera. The sunlight glints off the lens, making me wince.

Batsy's smile is more, ah, _familiar _now—quietly confident, almost smug. "Just take the picture, Joker."

"Can I take one?" Schiff asks, petting Charlie absentmindedly.

I shrug and hand over the camera. "Sure, _sure. _Just…don't let _the pooch _loose, okay?"

Schiff smiles and nods, like a good little goon. I know he isn't…_fond _of getting photographed. Charlie sits and pants.

I walk over to Batsy and sling an arm around his shoulder, slipping into his personal space so _easily_. Batsy gives me a deadpan look, and edges a _liiiittle_ farther away—but not out of arms' reach.

And so, with a _click_, our last week in Wales ends.

* * *

The _this_-close-to-useless cheapo earbuds are nearly breaking as Batsy leans closer to the plane window. The wires strain between us like a tree branch. I follow him, my neck feeling a little, ah, _creaky _with being so _still. _A little ditty by _The Divine Comedy _is slithering through the tiny speakers, sounding…_tinny as hell _and yet so charmingly _com_pli_cated. _It's "In Pursuit of Happiness", I _think. _The airline radio wasn't exactly, ah, _clear._

Oh well. It's a good song, so I sing along quietly. Don't want to disturb Batsy.

"_And hey, I'm not the type, to fall in love without good reason, and if that's a crime…then baby I'm committing high treason…_" How very _fitting_, almost…_scripted _for the moment.

I shiver and pull on my coat. I wonder where _that _came from—Schiff and Batsy seem fine…

In the seat alongside me, Schiff is…_sleep-fidgeting. _He must be worried about the ever-fluffy Charlie, stuck in a cage in the back of the plane. I'm _really _starting to regret stealing that pup. But hey, Schiffy's been a _good boy. _He deserves _some _nice things…_sometimes. _

My stomach growls, and Batsy's wide awake.

"We ate before we left, Joker. You shouldn't be hungry already."

"Thirsty, too." A vague memory floats into being. "Is, ah, _Fruitopia _still up and running?"

Batsy blinks in confusion. "Fruit…?"

"A juice brand, Coca-Cola style. Glass bottles? More, ah, _Flower Power _than a bus full of hippies?"

"Hmm. It sounds familiar…but I've never seen it in a vending machine in Gotham."

A cold feeling _zings_ down my back, and I ignore it. "Hmm…I wonder if I can look it up…"

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I go a-Googling. And _sure enough_, Fruitopia is still in business…in Canada, Germany, Spain, Australia, Austria, Tonga…but _not _in the US.

"Oh, _Batsy_," I say, pretending to swoon. "_Why _is Fate so bitter to such a…_pleasant _soul?"

"Maybe Fate doesn't like clowns with dark humor." Batsy looks out the window at the clouds floating by like white horses.

I want to say something, but my stomach lurches. I sigh and close my eyes and try to get some sleep. Maybe I'll get some kind of…_dream-Fruitopia_, with every flavor _ever. _

My body feels stiff and heavy, but I still get comfortable. Batsy makes a _great _pillow.

* * *

When I wake up from…_less-than-stellar _dreams, I find that my head is cotton.

Or it _feels _like that, anyway.

I groan and try to sit up, looking for Batsy. He's sitting right next to me, of course. Looks like we just landed…_somewhere_. Gotham? In the Palisades?

"Don't get up," Batsy says, so…_commanding. _"Your head feels like its on fire."

I try to touch my head to make sure, but my arms feel like, ah, _lead pipes _instead of flesh. My brain seems to trickle down to my stomach, and—

Batsy's trying his best to ignore his…_new shoes. _His nose wrinkles, and I get the feeling he's holding his breath.

"…oops…" I say weakly, as my stomach churns uncomfortably again.

Batsy carefully picks me up, and I feel very, ah, _useless. _And I _hate _that. But then again, it could be worse—the _pigs_ might be after us—

And _that's _when the sirens start blaring.

I feel Batsy's hands tighten on me. At the same time the world blurs around the edges.

Well, Batsy. How're you going to pull _this _escape off?


	13. Chapter 13: Batsy

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot (and Pip.)

**Chapter Thirteen: Batsy**

* * *

Carefully, I peer out the plane door to see if the police—and ambulances—are as close as they seem. Joker is pale and slack in my arms, but I'm not letting him drop anytime soon. Schiff is nervously tagging along beside me, fingers shaking as he fiddles with his coat buttons.

"Is Boss okay?" Schiff asks, looking from Joker to me.

"He'll be fine," I say, glad to see that the sirens have nothing to do with us.

They seem instead to be dealing with injured/sick passengers in another plane. I hate to be overly pragmatic, but I'm glad we can get away relatively safely.

"Let's go," I say, walking down the stairs to solid ground.

"How will we get out?" Schiff asks, trying his best to look mundane. (It's not working.)

"Let me think." My mind races as Joker groans and wriggles in my arms, feeling far too warm.

Schiff grabs Charlie out of the storage compartment, and croons soothingly as Charlie whines and scratches at his carrier. He smells like urine and vomit, and my stomach lurches in protest.

"Batsy, look!"

"What—?" I follow Schiff's pointing finger and see a young man walking toward us, pushing an empty wheelchair.

The young man's not-quite-pale arms are bare, due to a sleeveless hoodie. His hair is black, layered carefully, while blood-red goggles perch on his head, keeping stray hairs out of his face. His red pants are patched with varying degrees of clumsiness.

"Hallo," he says, and I'm distracted for a second.

All I can think is _I've heard that voice before._

Schiff waves, grinning nervously and staring at the green ear gauges in the boy's ears.

"You can't carry him through the terminal," the boy says; no inflection, monotone. "So here. Use this. And no, it ain't nicked."

His dark blue eyes suggest he suffers that assumption too much for his taste.

"…Thank you," I say, carefully placing Joker in the wheelchair. "What's your name?"

"Pip." Pip grins at me, head cocked to one side. "Short for Phillip. But Pip suits me best, see."

I squash down the memories that familiar smile awakens, lock the feelings deep in my brain. I have more important things to do.

"Thank you, Pip. Maybe we'll see each other again."

"That'd be nice." With that Pip strolls off, his many-buckled boots clunking as he follows the crowd.

It feels like an eternity until we get to the terminal. The air, at least, is reassuring—pure Gotham sewage, with the cool crispness of fall to remind you that seasons exist. The people around us are busy living in their own little bubbles, families and lovers and friends and singles, still wobbly from the trip.

Then we're in.

Schiff and I walk through the terminal as people push past us, thankfully not even bothering to look our way. The place is packed almost shoulder-to-shoulder, and I try not to think of cattle awaiting the needle and hammer. I feel heavy and stiff and need to breathe.

The terminal isn't letting me.

Joker shivers and twitches in the wheelchair. So far, so good—we grab our bags and everything's safe. Finally, we reach the exit, and Schiff lets Charlie out, clipping on his leash. Charlie whines and licks tentatively at Schiff's fingers, as Schiff strokes his matted fur carefully.

I pull Joker's cell phone out of his pocket and dial Seymour's number. Cars zoom and screech by us, and the wind rustles our hair, creating artistic spirals out of rumpled hair.

Suddenly, Charlie starts barking at passing cars, yanking roughly on his leash. Schiff clutches the leash, knuckles white. I press the phone to my ear, waiting for Seymour to pick up.

"_No_, Charlie," Schiff says, first firm, then worried—and then I hear claws clicking against concrete, moving away from us. "Charlie, _no!_"


	14. Chapter 14: Joker

…Y'know, I _really _shouldn't try to give myself deadlines—especially months in advance. They just make me panic and not get things done. (Like I'd actually finish this the day _The Dark Knight Rises _premieres.)

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _I do own this plot.

**Chapter Fourteen: Joker**

* * *

I flicker in and out of sleep like a lightning bug with ADD. The world's all…_foggy_, askew, and I can feel my head flopping around loosely, my greasy hair smacking against my face.

I can smell Gotham, all sewage and smog and smoke, and other…_alliterative_ things. Oh, how I've _missed _you, my pretty city. (Though you're Batsy's too, of course. We're learning to share). You, with your rusting buildings and traffic jams and smart-aleck pigeons.

I try to take everything in—is it dusk or daytime?—and find myself…_struggling. _There are cars honking and people yapping, and _so many noises _that I don't know what to do with. So I try to focus on something, and Batsy seems a good choice. (Scratch that, the _best _choice).

I can hear Batsy saying _NO_ with the voice of an old soldier. I can hear Schiffy giggle-screaming, and a dog whimpering, whining. I get a glimpse of Schiff pressing Charlie close to his chest, squeezing and smothering the pup as he thrashes in futility.

My eyes close, and I hear Schiff scream as Charlie wriggles in his grasp, finally breaking free and _bolting_—and I crash back to sleep.

Y'know…I _hate _being sick.

My brain goes into _The Land of Nod_ quicker than I'd thought. And this time, my subconscious is feeling a little more, ah,_ creative _than usual. I mean, usually it's just Batsy naked, or society turning into a frat party…which aren't bad by _any _means. It's nice to have a little _variety. _

_I'm standing in front of a lake, clear right to the bottom. Fish are a-swimming along, healthy and occasionally glittering silver-white in the sun. _

_There's a redheaded guy sitting crouched on a rock, watching the fish and not moving a muscle. He's all taught like wire, pale and dressed in plaid like he should be on the set of, ah, _Dragonheart _or something—reddish-orange tunic…reddish-orange _everything_, actually, with some damn _spiffy _boots. I'm a bit jealous. He's holding an equally spiffy fishing net. A regular, ah, _Boy Scout.

"_Craving fish?" I ask, as the waves ripple softly against my feet, water running over and between my bare toes. _

_The man says nothing. He just sits there, waiting for the fish to come._

"_Strong and silent type, huh? Finefine_fiiiiiiine. _I'll just, ah, _mope _then." I try my best to look brooding._

_Then again, _brooding always_ looks best on Batsy…or it used to, anyway. I like Batsy laid-back, kinda like the way this redheaded noodle-guy is acting._

_There's a _splish _and a _splash_, and the man hauls up his catch—enough fish to feed two generations. The man turns to look at me, ice-chip blue eyes making me both happy and _creeped the hell out_. Everything else about him is…_invisible. _I get the feeling he's hiding something._

"_You're going to be having a hell of a time, Scarlip." The man smiles—I _think_—do I _know _this guy?_

"_Really?" I try to get a closer look at this, ah, _mysterious _acquaintance. "Y'mean in Gotham? I have _lots _of fun there."_

_But, of course, there's no guarantee Gotham will still _be _fun. Gordon and the pigs could've…_ruined _our _hard work. _Which wouldn't be fun at all. _

"_Word is you think you own that city of dust. Well, it seems you're going to have to mark your territory, set some boundaries."_

"…_Are you some kind of, I don't know, _prophetic vision _or something?"_

_The man shrugs._

"_Ooooh." I can't help but preen a little. "Never had one of _those _before. This is…_exciting._ Who are you, anyway? Poseidon? Hermes? Bast?"_

"_I'll get back to you on that."_

"_Hey, _I'm _supposed to be the, ah, _smug bastard _around here. Maaaaybe"_—_I reach into my pocket for a knife—"_you _should check _your _boundaries?"_

_The man's laughter sounds like a crackling fire and wind chimes all at once. "I picked you for a reason."_

_My hackles rise. "_Whoa_, hey, wait. I made _myself_ who I am, Agent of Chaos and Clown Prince of Crime. And anyone who claims otherwise is…_dead _to the world."_

_The man quirks an eyebrow, not impressed. He's kind of…_Alfred-y_. Which is more than a little creepy. I mean, what if he's decided to take up a little, ah, _haunting _on the side? _

"_To interrupt your train of thought, I'm not Alfred. I'm a friend, though."_

"_How do I know—and how did _you _know?"_

"_You don't. And we'll get to that later."_

_I feel the ground under my feet _shift_, then _vanish. _I feel him slipping away, with his fish and his net and his riddles and _damn it_, if I could just—stay—asleep—_


End file.
